


truth, thy name is blasphemy

by Grand_Phoenix



Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [41]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Banchou is still Done, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Humor, Racism, Thaon is a judgmental sonuvabitch, Tongue-in-cheek, featuring sleep-deprived elves, hard T rating for f-bombs, hunter pets are awesome we need more stories of them, kind of, thanks dad for being a constant source of inspiration and despair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Phoenix/pseuds/Grand_Phoenix
Summary: Ignorance is bliss. (Or, notallsatyrs are bad and theycanchange. But likehellis Thaon going to listen.) [Legion era, post-Emerald Nightmare]
Relationships: Male Night Elf & Female High Elf
Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [41]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/971712





	truth, thy name is blasphemy

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a story based off a post I made on Tumblr that points how no one points out to Thaon Moonclaw in the post-Emerald Nightmare raid that there _have_ been cases of satyrs seeking redemption from Elune and returning to their night elf forms in the past. However, given that he was all in for exterminating them and still is even in death, chances are very good Thaon wouldn't believe anyone for a second when they tell him otherwise.
> 
> I would say that, between this and _In the Gloom There Lies a Seed_ , I've pretty much had to force myself to stop writing this story, simply because I felt it was starting to drag out more than I'm comfortable with and was actively losing interest in it, and you'll probably notice it towards the end. There was going to be a little more, but at that point I figured it was better to end it than forcing it to keep going.

“They should’ve listened to me when they had the chance,” the spirit of Thaon Moonclaw tells them as he continues to lick his paw and bathe the fur around his face in spittle. Mishka would love to take him more seriously if it didn’t look so _damp_. “Soon as you say jump—that’s how it should’ve been done, you know. We’d have one less problem to worry about. One less bastard satyr seducing our women with their off-key music and shitting in our rivers for the hell of it.”

“That’s,” Mishka begins to say, and can’t for the life of her come up with anything that can follow up with how out of left field those words are. So she settles with, “That’s terrible. I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Hmph. Did the satyr ever apologize for what _they_ did?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then why should I apologize for proposing their extermination? There was neither remorse nor shame in their actions; I should not have to justify my decisions, either!” He sneezes loudly just as he puts his paw down on the floor. “Good riddance,” he growls, and looks past her. There are druids gathered in a circle where the trees give way to the open sprawl of the Dream, flowering staves in hand and curved blades drawn; life magic glows from their fingertips.

Xavius lies dead—not the bloated monstrosity the Nightmare twisted him into, but the night elf man in his vainglorious robes stained with blood and the fel light gone from his eyes. Then again, nothing seems to want to stay dead in this timeline anymore; not for very long, that is, but there’s no guarantee the Nightmare has been completely purged and, well, the night elves were never ones to leave fate to chance. She’s certain they’ll figure out what to do with his body.

“You know that won’t be the last of them, right?” Mishka says. “They’re still going to find work among the Legion, or the Twilight’s Hammer.”

“Of course. But Xavius was the progenitor of the satyr curse; so long as he’s dead, and _stays that way_ , rest assured their numbers will cease to be...in due time. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, girl?” He gives her a hard stare. It’s the kind of stare Banchou wears...but Banchou always looks like that. It’s hard to look like anything else when your soul is shoved into a body carved and chiseled to look like you’ve had it Up To Here with everything. And Hati—Hati is just a ball of fluff, claws, and random spurts of conjured lightning strikes that’s made her hair explode into a frazzled mess on nearly a daily basis. He has nothing to be or feel Done about save for whatever he’s trying to dig up pushing his nose into the dirt like that, as if there’s some buried treasure that can only be found in the Dream.

So neither of them really react when she flinches at Thaon. “I, uh—”

“Surely you don’t have a problem?”

“Well...no. But--”

“Think of it as hunting game,” Thaon says. “A means to restore balance to nature. That’s what it is.” He laughs, cruel and sardonic. “That’s how it should be. You agree with me, don’t you, lad?” He turns his gaze to her companion. Like all kaldorei men Ferune towers over her by a solid two-two and a half feet, lean and sinewy with muscle beneath his leathers. The Talonclaw spear is tied to his back from a strap cinched cross-shouldered, a knife on his belt with pouches filled with crushed herbs and powders, and a dart gun around one thigh. With his physique and a touch of five o’clock shadow on his face, he could be the poster boy image of the rugged huntsman that men aspire to be and women want to be with: brave and dashing, quick and nimble, blood on his beard with the call of the wild a glimmer in his eyes, and a horde of exotic beasts following him at his beck and call.

You couldn’t tell just by looking at him that he checked all those boxes. Oh, he was brave; anyone that decided to take the plunge into Shaldrassil’s depths fighting satyr, corrupted dragons, a Wild God, and an amalgamation of flesh and blood from beyond realms would be hard pressed to be called a coward. You’d have to be a fool to call anyone—the ones that made it through the excursion alive, that is—slow, too, for having made it this far.

What Ferune is, is _tired_. His eyes, large and hooded, are close to drooping. His ears may as well be, too (and it’s such a shame kaldorei ears are nothing like quel’dorei ears, not thin and loose and upright but thicker and _horizontal_ , and that meant he couldn’t do half the things his cousins could do to entertain themselves with out of sheer boredom), but it’s shows in his face and in the way he stands. Standing, Mishka notes, in the kind of way that would see him tip over if anyone so much as breathes on him.

Then again, even without the weariness and the blood on his clothes, Ferune always looks sleepy. Even Dusk, his nightsaber companion, but you could never tell if him blinking slowly means he’s content or he’s ready to pass out right where he’s sitting. Except he’s not blinking, and Mishka can’t remember the last time he blinked. The thought sends an unholy shiver down her spine.

(That might be just the adrenal fatigue, though. Or perhaps a shred of Nightmare that managed to get into her systems; she ought to have a healer evaluate her before – or maybe after – she crashes.)

Ferune shrugs. “Well. I suppose it can be seen that way, if you don’t think about it.”

“Think?” Thaon asks, ears flicking back. “What’s there to think about?”

“They used to be night elves, sir.”

“ _Used to be_ , boyo. _Used to_.”

“But there were others, too, that were changed.”

“ _Were_ others, but none so numerous and damaging as those we once called kith and kin. You didn’t answer my question.”

Ferune blinks, slow and thoughtful, and beside him Dusk does the same. “I couldn’t,” he finally says.

“Why?”

“It goes against what I believe in.”

“And that is…?”

“They’re not animals, but nor are they civilized. I can’t hunt them the same way I do beasts.”

“Sure you can. Just pretend they’re animals and shoot them down. Use their bones and horns for tools if you must, but leave the meat for the carrion to feast upon. The only good satyr is a dead satyr.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Thaon’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean, am I sure? There has never been, in the history of the kaldorei, a documented case of a satyr committing an act of good that was neither self-serving nor for the furthering of his clan’s expansion! Tell me, girl,” he says to Mishka. “Have you, in all your travels across Azeroth, through time, and beyond worlds, encountered a single satyr that has not wanted to inflict violence upon you, or insult you, or dare attempt to violate and damage you beyond all repair?”

Mishka puts a finger to her chin, bashful. “W-Well—”

“By the Goddess’s name, girl, don’t make this a trick question. You shouldn’t have to hurt yourself overthinking _what should be_ a simple answer!”

“Well,” she repeats, a little more confidently. “No. I haven’t come across any satyr who wasn’t a deviant, a cultist, or a heel-revolving door of short-lived allegiances.”

“And what of you, boy?” Thaon asks Ferune. “Have you come across any do-gooder satyrs that have made you give pause and question your life’s purpose?”

Ferune hums and puts a hand to his chin which he uses to cover the loud, wide yawn that comes out of him. Dusk accompanies him with a yawn of his own and shakes his head, making his ears flop. (Mishka is pretty sure he still hasn’t blinked yet—absolutely, positively certain this cat doesn’t have the ability to.)

“All you have to do is say yes or no! You don’t have to wax philosophical over it!” Thaon snarls.

But Ferune still thinks. He _hums_ , and looking back on it Mishka can pinpoint the exact moment, the exact millisecond, when the hackles on Thaon’s nape bristle, his ears fold back, his face scrunches up in crinkles that mar the symmetry of the war paint on his snout, his teeth bared in a hiss. It’s enough for Banchou to break his unblinking vigil and place himself between his master and Thaon; mogu flesh-magic activates to make his brow slope down in a disapproving frown.

Hati, on the other hand, stops pushing the dirt with his nose and, without moving his head, looks up to glance between his master, her bearded friend and sleepy cat, his perpetual frowner of a friend, and the cat druid who’s been robbed of all color except white and every shade of light green on the spectrum. Ears cocked forward with his teeth set in determination, Mishka would’ve laughed if she wasn’t certain that doing so would result in having Thaon maul her to death.

Dusk yawns again.

Thaon harrumphs. “I should’ve known. You can’t think of—”

“There was one.”

Thaon pauses. “What.”

“What?” Mishka says, looking at him incredulously. Banchou looks with her. Hati sneezes. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re lying,” Thaon says. “You’re just saying that to make yourself look better than you think you are.”

“As Elune is my witness, I speak the truth,” says Ferune.

“You speak heresy!”

“Since when?” Mishka asks.

“His name was Avrus Illwhisper,” he begins. “He was of the Felmusk satyr that had been causing trouble in Ashenvale before the Shattering. However, at some point he became disgusted with what they were doing, and what he had done alongside them, so he abandoned them and left the Night Run where they had been camped. He went to Raynewood Retreat and managed to convince the Sentinels stationed there to grant him sanctuary, citing Elune as his purpose for seeing the error of his way. That was where he stayed until Dusk and I happened upon him.” He levels a look at Thaon. “There was a little girl in Astranaar who’d taken sick. I was passing through the area when her father hired me to collect reagents for a soup that could cure her, and everything I’d gotten for her wasn’t strong enough. It was when I went to cleanse a Tear of Elune in a moonwell that She spoke to me and told me about Avrus. Avrus was the one who said there had to be more than one moonstone for a cure to be made, and for it to have any effect it required something very important.”

Thaon’s ears flicker. “And, pray tell, was that?”

“A sacrifice.”

Silence.

Mishka’s heart sinks. Her stomach lurches. “You,” she ventures fearfully. Licks her lips, swallows. “Did you really…?”

“Kill him? Oh no, I’d done my part. The sacrifice was all on Avrus.”

“Oh...so what did he have to give up? I’m guessing his horns or maybe his claws.”

“Goodness no. He tore out his heart with his bare hands.”

“What the hell!” Mishka exclaims, and involuntarily flinches back.

“And then he died!” Thaon accompanies all too happily.

Ferune’s blank stare doesn’t change. “Well...no. I mean, under normal circumstances it would have. But he had said he would do whatever it took to save the girl, so that’s what he did. He ripped his own heart out and spread the muscle and the blood over the moonstones--”

“What the flip-flapping FUCK—!” Thaon begins.

“—which should’ve been the death of him. Except Avrus didn’t die; I watched Elune shine Her Light down on him, and when it vanished Avrus was no longer a satyr. He was a night elf again with a night elf’s heart.”

“What happened to him after that?” Mishka asks.

Ferune shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s been years since I last saw him. Although I like to think he went to Darnassus and joined the Sisterhood of Elune, travel the world and spread her teachings to those who are willing. He didn’t come across as someone who would fight—well, not anymore, and without good reason, that is. But I think he is okay, wherever he is.”

“Wow. So if Avrus can be cleansed of the curse, then that means there are other satyrs out there that might be searching for redemption. Right?”

“There should be,” Ferune says, nodding, “but only if they are willing to go to the lengths Avrus did. Of course, if there are satyr that have already offered their sacrifice, I’ve yet to come across any. Or have, and just not know it.”

“That’s amazing. I always heard the Light can hurt a demon the same way it does with undead, but to purge the satyr of demonic taint...oh, just think of the implications! Maybe the same can be applied to naga! What do you think, Thaon?”

Thaon cocks his head, gaze curious. “Do I think you’re trying to tell me that the satyr is not a permanent result of sin and debauchery but a condition that can be cured through the power of repentance and religious faith, therefore restoring the kaldorei population to a third of its number that it was at prior to the War of the Ancients?”

“Well…yes.”

“And that by allowing these satyr to undergo this rite of redemption and transfiguration, we should forego the process of judge, jury, and executioner for all the crimes they have committed during that time and reintroduce them into society out of the goodness of our hearts because they said they were sorry and found Elune again?”

“I wouldn’t exactly do that right away, but if they’re shown they’re not causing any problems then we can--”

“You’re just going to sweep everything under the rug and call it a day? You’re just going to forget the killing, the pillaging, the long-term effects of environmental destruction, the off-tune singing to lure virgin men and women to their doom, and the absolute shamelessness in shitting in all manners of river, brooks, creeks, channels, and streams?”

“I never said that—”

“Nah. Fuck that. Fuck all that nonsense. That’s recidivism you’re advocating, girl, and I’ll have no part in it!”

“That wasn’t what I was—!”

“Oh yes you were!” Thaon exclaims, “and you, too, boyo! Trying to push your ‘new age views’ in my face like some kind of...some...blind warrior of justice! Is this what Shan’do Stormrage and his woman have been advocating in the past ten thousand years? A finger-wag in the face, telling them not to do it again like an old schoolmarm?”

“Actually, Tyrande was in charge up until a couple years ago,” Ferune speaks up. “Fandral was Malfurion’s stand-in until—”

“Ah! Fandral!” Thaon nods grandly. “Now there’s a man who had a head on his shoulders! How’s that sonuvabitch been doing? Keeping the peace, I’ll wager!”

“He’s dead, sir.”

Thaon’s ears droop. “What do you mean, dead? What happened to him?”

Ferune tells him, and when he’s done Thaon’s jaw has become fully unhinged.

“And that patsy is married to her?! She chose him?! They’re both in charge?!

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

“Elune wept! No wonder Azeroth is in the shape it’s in! A Stormrage man just can’t seem to keep his hands to himself when there are problems to be had! Next you’re going to tell me the Betrayer will be brought back from the dead and reveal to us that all along he was plotting the Legion’s downfall from the inside out, thus absolving him of all wrongdoing and general bastard tendencies without a sliver of remorse!”

Hati’s tail, which had been hanging low on the ground, starts to wag. It takes all of Mishka’s willpower to reach out, put a gentle, firm grasp on his rump, and it takes Banchou put his whole weight sitting down on top of her feet to keep her face as straight-laced and stone-like as humanly possible. She reminds herself to _breathe_.

Dusk’s ears flicker, tosses his head.

Ferune’s ears, on the other hand, go up. “W-Well. About that—”

“Actually, you know what? I don’t want to find out,” Thaon says, suddenly and with finality. “You know why? Because I’m dead! Free! Unchained from my mortal shackle! And that means I don’t have to get involved in any of this nonsense! I can have all the peace and realistic expectations I want in the Dream—forever! And when I’m reborn, I’ll be damned lucky to never remember this hock of bullshit!”

“But it really hap—”

“No! No, no, no, no, no! It did not happen! I know what the satyr are like! I know the truth!” Thaon exclaims loudly, and there are faces turning to stare at them now, curious and alarmed. One of which is Cenarius, and Mishka is very sure, even from this far away, the sigh he gives is full of weary exasperation. “I was there! They’re all troublemakers, I tell you! Trouble! Makers! Anyone that says a satyr can be capable of regret and redemption is a liar!”

Ferune shrugs, nonplussed. “I must be very creative, then.”

“Of course! After all, a writer has two jobs. The first! is to entertain you. And the second! is to manipulate you. I’ll have you kids know I was not entertained by this heresy, and I will certainly not be manipulated into accepting this absolute malarkey!”

“Well that must’ve been some pretty good malarkey, because you were really getting into that story!” Mishka says with a firm nod, and taps her other foot against Banchou’s flank to move. He doesn’t.

“That was just an act!” Thaon hisses, flashing his fangs at her. “An act to make you think I was enraptured! To see how you’d react!”

Mishka snorts at the same time Hati finally sneezes the dirt from his nose. “ _Sure_ you were.”

“I mean it! Every single word of it! Not convinced, not entertained—nada! Nothing! It never happened! You hear me? Good!” Thaon exclaims, not caring in the slightest he didn’t give them a chance to speak. “Go...I don’t know, spin your Fantasy Land yarns someplace else. Preferably in the land of the living! I’m going to take a nice, long, uninterrupted nap. Have a splendid day!” He turns on his heel and walks away, but not without kicking up a clod of grass and dirt in their direction. Mishka grimaces, but Banchou, being half her size, takes the brunt of it to the face. He snarls and finally heaves his weight off her foot, getting into position.

“Let it go, boy,” Mishka says, placing a hand on his back. “You, too, Hati, don’t get any ideas,” she tells the wolf, who’s watching Thaon grow smaller in the distance all the while there are bits of lightning arcing and sparking all over him. Hati looks at her, head cocked, long blue tongue lolling over the south of his mouth. He licks his lips, pants, and looks away, tail wagging faster. “Please,” Mishka groans, and shakes her head. “Why can’t you two be like Dusk?” She turns to the cat, who regards her with a quiet chuff.

He blinks.

For a split second, the burden of exhaustion and the temptation of sleep are blown away. It’s a seaward gust coming in cold and strong, the onset before the storm crashes down, unleashing the full might of its fury unchecked, unbridled, glorious. Dangerous, too, perhaps, but Xavius has already been dealt and Thaon gone to find himself a nice, dark spot removed from people and artistic manipulators to take an equally nice, long—or otherwise eternal—nap on his lonesome, dreaming dreams that are grounded in the laws of rationality.

But Thaon would know what it’s like to wake up feeling refreshed, alive, and totally, preferably not like the walking dead. Thaon would know the sensation of springing out of his bed of choice and continue where he left off as though the exhaustion never happened.

Thaon would know what it’s like to give a big, muscular, spotted nightsaber a stupid, sleep-addled smile and ruffle the fur between his ears, completely ignoring the sudden grunt being knocked out of Dusk’s mouth. “What a good kitty,” Mishka laughs.

“Yes he is,” Ferune nods, and almost tips forward in what could’ve been a spectacular face-plant. “Oh, sorry.”

“’S okay. I’m tired.”

“Me, too.”

“You think they’d mind if we sleep here?”

“I don’t think so. The grass looks very plush to lie on.”

“That’s good. I”--Mishka pauses to yawn--”I think I’d rather do that. Don’t wanna hearth back to Dalaran. Too noisy.”

“Right? A nap sounds”--and now Ferune yawns widely, flashing long incisors that sends a different kind of chill through her--”very nice right now. Let’s find a spot before they’re all taken.”

“Not with flowers, though,” Mishka says, punctuating the last word with another yawn. “I don’t wanna crush them. Banchou, Hati, come on. Let’s get some rest.” Just as she’s about to take a step, Banchou utters a short bark and levels her a heavy-browed look of disapproval. “Banchou, you were neck-deep in monsters and ripping them apart. Even a lion-dog without any bones, muscles, blood, and functioning biological organs must feel tired _somehow_.”

“And dirty,” Ferune adds. “I doubt you’d sleep well.”

 _Very_ dirty, to be exact, and Banchou twists his head for a better view—as better a view of blood from the spirits of nature themselves can give him. It stands out in a brighter, vibrant shade of red over his darker, granite body, if one were to squint. Really, the only noticeable blood on him is the gunk from where a small cluster of eyes on Il’gynoth’s exposed heart burst when he ceased to be.

He turns to them and issues a softly sharp, acquiescent growl. Dusk purrs and gets down on his front paws to stretch, then rises on hind legs before shaking himself off. It’s hard to tell how much gore is on him that isn’t staining his mouth, but the spots on his hide are whiter and more splotchy than they should be, and the glances and pawing he’s been doling out hasn’t gone unnoticed.

He leans forward and sniffs Banchou, nostrils and whiskers twitching a hairsbreadth from his face.

He sneezes—once, twice. Shakes his head left and right, and sneezes again. Magic compels Banchou to grimace and turn away, toward the sprawling greensward of the Dream. Down the slope past the giant tree stump Cenarius and his druids are standing on is a pond large enough for a full-grown dragon or two to bathe in, complimented with an array of lily pads and lotus flowers floating in the shallows. Some of the adventurers in their group are seated on the bank underneath the curtained vines of weeping willows, relaxing, or petting the little whelplings that have come to rest in their laps.

There are animals in the water: Bald eagles dipping one wing in and then the other in between excited flapping splashes. Brown bears sitting as far in the center they can before it gets deep. Pandarian water striders skimming across the surface without abandon.

Surprisingly, the pond isn’t getting dirtied. At least, not from what Mishka and Ferune can see. Were they not so tired, the serotonin would skyrocket even higher.

Hati, who had gone back to muddying his paws and nose with the hole he was making, finally removes his head from the underground and barks at Banchou. It comes out muffled, and when the quilen looks his way he gets down on his front paws and does that crazy jig with his hindquarters up in the air, tail on the fritz.

In his mouth is an acorn the size of a football, with itty-bitty saplings sticking out in curlicues.

“Huh, so that’s what you’ve been looking for this whole time,” Mishka says, and Hati tosses his head about in agreement. “I don’t think the Keepers will mind if one acorn goes missing. They’ll manage.”

Hati prances around in a circle at that, and when he completes it he lobs the acorn right at Banchou so quick and suddenly it catches him square in the face, landing at his feet with a bounce. Banchou snarls, takes the acorn in his mouth, and chases after Hati, stubby tail held up high. Dusk follows on his heels, zips past him, and lunges at Hati, sending them tumbling in balls of fur and scattered lightning bolts down the hill.

“Wow,” Ferune says. “I’m surprised Dusk still has some energy in him.”

“I’m surprised any of us has energy to spare at all,” says Mishka.

“Not for long.”

“Not even that. I’m gonna”—another yawn—”drop right now if I don’t get moving.”

“Mm, same. There’s a nice patch of grass underneath the trees over there, underneath the shade of that big tree. You take one and I’ll take the other.”

“Good idea.”

They don’t so much as walk as they drag themselves down the path opening up onto the greensward and sprawling, untamed expanse of the Emerald Dream, mumbling apologies when they bump into a Laughing Sister (who, naturally, laughed it off) or stopped walking to pause and take a long moment to disassociate and become one with their surroundings. To which a Keeper of the Grove—or maybe Cenarius, Mishka will reflect some fourteen hours later, in a two bedroom suite on the Legerdermain Lounge’s second floor in Dalaran—would redirect one of the two, or both, to the area where other adventurers are settling in for respite.

Somewhere along the way, or perhaps it was a dream, Banchou stands up on his hind legs and engages Dusk paw for paw in a slap fight that causes the nightsaber to drop the acorn and send them both into the deeper end of the pool. Hati stands above them on a jutting rock and avoids the wave that sends the eagles and gulls squawking and scattering for all of two seconds, and with a bark leaps off it and cannonballs right into the spot where they’d fallen. Somewhere in the midst of all that chaos the acorn goes flying, skipping across the water past a bear lounging in front of a small spring.

“I just remembered something,” Mishka begins, during another pause that’s put her two feet in front of the patch of grass. Swaying, head struggling to stay above the surface.

“What’s that?” Ferune asks, right after he drops to his knees, sets Talconclaw to the side, and spreads out on the ground.

“I _did_ meet a good satyr. I met an enchantress in Azsuna. I think her name was Ilyana. Yeah, Ilyana. Her lover, Driana, became a satyr during the War of the Ancients because she thought she had no other way to survive than to team up with Azshara. I had to bring her journal Ilyana gave me to convince Driana to be cleansed of the curse at Nor’Danil Wellspring.”

“Oh. I think I heard something like that happening from the leatherworker in the area.”

“Celea?”

“Yes, that’s her name,” says Ferune, rolling onto his side. “What did you have to offer?”

“I collected demonic runestones and crushed them to dust as an offering. It happened just like you said it did with Avrus: in a pillar of Light that changed Driana back into a night elf.”

“Where are they at now?”

“Still in Azsuna, making enchantments. I think the war effort the Kirin Tor’s been accumulating is going to be spent on capturing the Broken Shore soon.”

“It’ll happen. Eventually.”

“Yeah.” Mishka stretches herself out and puts an arm underneath her head to pillow. Her eyes fall shut, and the sensation of falling-drowning descends on her like a curtain at the end of a play. “Should I tell him?”

“Thaon?”

“Yeah. Think he’ll believe me? ‘Cause, you know. If one satyr story won’t convince him, maybe another will.”

“I dunno about that, Mishka.”

“Worth a shot, right?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to try.”

(It doesn’t hurt, and she does try after she sleeps, but the instant the word ‘satyr’ comes out of her mouth Thaon promptly gets up, turns around, and plops down facing away from them. “Nope,” he says with a shake of his head. “Nuh-uh.”

“Just let me finish—”

“Nope.”

“It’s a wholesome story—”

“Nope.”

“But you were really into the other—”

“You see this?” he asks, and swipes his tail back and forth along the ground in a flurry. “Do you see what I’m doing?”

“You have your back turned to us,” says Ferune.

“Great observation, genius! Do you know what that means? It means a cat feels safest when his hindquarters are in the face of something they love and trust above all else in moments of stress and high tension.”

Mishka looks at Ferune. Ferune looks at Mishka.

Ferune breaks the silence first. “Sir, I mean no disrespect, but since you are mad at us shouldn’t you be facing _the other way?_ ”

“I know what I’m doing! Besides, if there is anything else I’d prefer to be the last thing I see before I close my eyes and drift deeper into the Dream for an indeterminate amount of time that I am fervently hoping is forever, I’d rather it be this nice flower over there in the corner.”

“Flower?” Mishka parrots, and notices that indeed, there is a flower in the very back of the cave. Although it’s hard to distinguish it in the gloom, with what little sunlight is able to pour in. She takes a few steps closer, mindful of Thaon’s personal space, for a better look. Then she squints and leans forward.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

 _I wonder if there are optometrists in the afterlife,_ Mishka wonders. Instead she says, “Thaon, this flower’s covered in Void magic.”

“Is it now?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Sir, I’m pretty sure satyr have dabbled in the Void.”

“Well, there aren’t any satyr around now to be an immediate concern, is there?”

“No sir.”

“You’ll be fine. Xavius and his ilk are gone now. Besides, what’s one little flower going to do, anyway?”

“Um,” Ferune begins.

“Don’t you start! Don’t even dare finish that sentence! If I say you’ll be fine, then you’re going to be fine. Now leave me alone. I am going to dream of green hills, clean rivers, synchronous singing, and glorious, glorious murder.” Thaon flops on his side and kicks his legs out. “Good night.”)


End file.
